Everblue
by Seynee
Summary: This is as close to happiness as she can get. — Sasuke, Sakura.


**everblue  
**_what if i loved you?_

.

They live in colors.

Sasuke is monochromatic. He paints lines in black and white and yes and no and right and wrong, every side polished and every edge sharp. With him, it is one polar opposite or the other, it is a beginning or an end, it is everything or nothing at all. There is no middle, there is no center, there is no in-between. There are no dreams, only reality, and this is the only way he knows to live.

Sakura is kaleidoscopic. She splashes swirls and shapes, red and orange and yellow and green and blue and every other color ever discovered, engulfing her in an overwhelming, confusing, never-ending stream. Her fireworks burst golden sunsets and white moons and neon green fields, her clouds shine splendid silver in her sky. She chases rainbows and runs after sunsets and never ever stops, and this is the only way she knows to live.

.

.

(Sometimes his name escapes her lips when she is asleep. It makes him think that she is dreaming about him. It makes him think that she is dreaming _for _him. It makes him think that he loves her—and maybe, just maybe, maybe she loves him, too.)

.

.

Together, they do not make sense.

He is broken, destroyed, shattered. His cracks and fissures are apparent, his scar running deep and his blood trickles, overflows, never stops. It is carved on his face, etched on his skin, and she can see it in his eyes, smell it in his breath, hear it in his heartbeat.

She is not without flaw for she has no clear, sharp lines, but she dances in a patch of golden sunlight. She brims of hope and faith and trust, the perfect prism of colors blending into one another that it is impossible to know where one ends and another begins. Her fingertips weave magic, curving every straight line he projects into a smile as golden as the sun.

That night, he spreads her out on white and they tangle together. He fills her, splatters of blazing black and whimsical white and gravestone gray, drawing rigid lines where there was nothing before, creating shapes and outlines but nothing else. She welcomes him, rainbow threads spilling on his contours, overflowing his lines of demarcation like a child with a coloring page and a world of shades to choose from.

They come together and it is ecstasy as their vision fades into white paper butterflies, an intricate imperfection, a damaged daydream, a flawed fantasy.

.

.

("I love you," she whispers, but he is deep in his slumber and her words fall on deaf ears. This is as close to happiness as she can get, so she takes it and asks for nothing more.)

.

.

He kisses her and it is like the land where sleep does not exist. She is like an outlaw on the run, always escaping, always in flight with bits and pieces of herself left everywhere—fragments of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet, all _blended_ into one another—always searching for that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. She becomes very, very painfully aware of _everything_; his eyelashes grazing her cheekbones, his fingers buried in the strands of her hair, his breath hot on her skin, his lips dancing over hers slowly, gracefully. For a moment, he is her entirety, her total, her _whole_.

When she moans into his mouth and surrenders into his kiss, bright, vibrant colors flood his vision and he no longer sees in grayscale. For him, she _is _that pot of gold where rainbows end, her red shooting across _his_ sky, her green dipping deep into _his_ soul. There is a pandemonium of static noise and dynamic colors sending his senses into overdrive, and for a second so quick, everything, _everything, _is her and only her.

.

.

(It is a beauty they do not know to capture—he never sees the way she looks at him with so much hope bursting in her heart and she never sees the way he looks at her like she is his saving grace; he never sees the faint blush on her pale cheeks every time he teases her and she never sees the hatred in his eyes every time she talks to another man; he never _really_ sees, and she never _really_ sees—it slips off their fingers like water and escapes them like an invisible ghost and disappears without a trace.)

.

.

Sasuke is monochromatic, but every time they kiss rainbow swirls fall into his sky, bridging every gap between black and white and yes and no and right and wrong, building a story between the beginning and the end. There are no dreams, only reality, and it comes in faded, muted colors, longer and stronger than yesterday with every touch, every look, every smile, and suddenly his world is not as dull anymore.

Sakura is kaleidoscopic, but every time they kiss lines and solid shapes stretch into her vision, engulfing her in a world of circles and squares and objects sharp enough for her to picture. She chases rainbows and runs after sunsets, but this time, they descend into her hands like snowflakes on a winter day, and suddenly she is not running anymore.

It is not perfect, but it is love.

.

**end.**

* * *

**notes:** Yeaaaah, I don't know. Heavily inspired by Mandy Moore's song with the same title, _Everblue. _It was very… _interesting_ to write something like this, so I hope you enjoyed, at least!


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